


Not in Love

by madwriter223



Category: Wolverine And The X-Men (Cartoon)
Genre: Animal Traits, Graphic Description, M/M, Romantic Fluff, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-06
Updated: 2014-07-07
Packaged: 2018-02-07 17:26:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1907547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madwriter223/pseuds/madwriter223
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I wouldn't say we're in love. Not exactly. Don't get me wrong – there are definitely some warm feelings. And hot, passionate moments behind the closed doors of our bedrooms. But I wouldn't say we're in love. We don't have the time for that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written in Hank's first person POV.

I wouldn't say we're in love. Not exactly.

Don't get me wrong – there are definitely some warm feelings. And hot, passionate moments behind the closed doors of our bedrooms. But it isn't like we can't keep our hands off each other, nor do we spend hours just staring at each other with goofy expressions. We don't have the time for that.

However, when it is safe for a moment and everything is already done for the day, we decide on a bedroom, and lock ourselves inside.

Our mouths are connected in a deep kiss, tongues intertwining between two sets of sharp teeth. My panting mixes with the rumbling coming from his chest, at the same time the wet sounds of our kiss fill the air around us.

We haven't even parted before he starts yanking my lab coat and shirt off of me, his strong fingers curling in my fur.

I'm Big Blue to him. That or Fuzzy. Some could argue that the nickname matches also Kurt, but he's never called the kid anything other than Elf. That and he doesn't go to Kurt – he goes to me.

I take my sweet time undressing him. Ignoring the way he rubs against me, I use my hands to map out his already familiar body through his clothes. He's not even remotely soft – he's miles and valleys of hard muscles, honed to a predator's perfection through years of an unforgiving life.

Here's another reason why I think we're not in love – I don't want to shield him from harm. I don't see any point in it. We live a dangerous life, injury could strike us from any direction. And from a few additional ones for him, I'm more than certain. All I can do is patch us up when harm strikes, and try to minimize the number of unnecessary hurts with advice or help. But I am more than aware, if the situation demands it, he'll disregard his own health and jump into the line of fire, more often than not literally.

He seems to think that just because he heals so quickly he's invincible. He's not, but locking him somewhere safe or cuddling him would just make him hate me.

I reach for his pants and his demeanor changes. The rumbling deepens, intensifies, so much so that my fingers tingle. His muscles tense slightly and he leans marginally away.

I don't mind. I know it's instinctive and someone so animal-like would surely find the impulse difficult to suppress. That and I'm pretty sure he likes my own instinctive growl in response.

His pants are open now, and, when I reach inside, he bucks against me with a snarl. He pushes at my shoulders sharply and shoves me onto the bed, sits atop me with a fearsome expression. I bear my own teeth, and throw him off me and to the side. I jump atop him, and press his face into the covers. I force his pants down his hips, then bunch his shirt up so I can reach his skin.

I must admit it has merit. It inspires a sense of deep satisfaction, of achievement – I am definitely earning the right to his body.

He growls at me, bites and scratches at my flesh, twists and bucks to get me off. He's like a bitch not wanting to be mounted, but I do it anyway – I pin his arms to the bed, and lick and nibble at his neck to keep his nerve endings occupied. I grab the junction between his neck and shoulder with my teeth, then clamp down, his pulse throbbing under my tongue. 

He heeds the unspoken warning and stills, though his growl doesn't lessen. I can feel it rumbling against the fur on my chest. I loosen my jaw, and I suckle at his neck, my lips easily locating the small scar there, a tiny memento of when he had not been a weapon.

My hands are not idle either – I move my thumbs over the steady thump-thump of his pulse, while my fingers stretch to reach his knuckles, to touch where his claws emerge.

He jerks violently, and I let out a snarl, pressing him further into the mattress. I continue caressing those exact spots, and when he presses his face into the bedding, I lay my cheek against his temple.

This is one of the things I believe he hates about me. The way I touch his hands, how I don't flinch away from his claws. I assume he views them as something to be avoided unless necessary, something dangerous. They are, but so is he. I think they even each other out.

They were forced upon him to make him a deadlier weapon, to make him as lethal as possible. I know that, at some level, he still fears them, at least to a degree. Of them piercing out of his hands and into someone else if he loses control of them for even a moment. 

He fears the metal in him just like I fear the beast howling underneath my skin.

He's still by now, and quiet. He watches as I caress his hands, his fingers trembling with the effort of remaining relaxed, of the claws remaining sheathed. I don't care about them when I curl my palm around his hand, cradling flesh and lethal bones alike. 

After a few moments, he twines our fingers together, squeezing around my fingertips. I smile in response and place a kiss just below his ear. Then one just behind his ear. Then I lick along the shell, nibbling gently. At the same time I tighten my grip on him so that he can't wriggle away.

He's ticklish there.

I can feel his chest heaving under me, and I suckle harder, his soundless laughter forcing the air out of his lungs. I continue this till his whole body is shivering with induced mirth. Only then do I make my move.

I jump up into a crouch, simultaneously grabbing hold of his nape with one hand and yanking his hips up with the other. I grind my erection against him, and my claw dig into his skin as I hold his still.

As expected, he snarls at this new position, looking over his shoulder at me with a predatory look. “You've still got your panties on, bub.”

“Indeed I do.” I grin at him, grinding harder.

He growls at me, bearing his teeth. “Get those of.”

“You get the lube then.” I reply as I release him. He divests himself of his clothing in record speed, then climbs higher onto the bed, rummaging through the side-table's drawers. I, meanwhile, take off my pants, and take a moment to gather up our combined clothes, throwing them onto an armchair.

When I turn back to the bed, I can't help staring. Logan is leaning against the headboard, knees bent and spread, muscles flexing, two digits already slick and pushed inside of him.

I remember our first time together, and how surprised I was to learn that he prefered to be the bottom. Or, should I say, when Logan climbed onto my lap and rode me as if I was a prize stallion. That hadn't changed much – the impatience. Sometimes he barely waits for the door to close behind us before tackling me to the nearest available surface.

Though sometimes he allows me to tie him up, and I spend at least one and a half hours doing whatever I wanted to him. Licking him from top to bottom, touching him where ever I want, caressing his skin, mapping out his muscles. Whatever I want, for how ever long I want.

As I watch, Logan grins his sharp teeth at me and adds another finger, thrusting them steadily in and out. He's usually the one to do this, after that last time I had to give him something that would help remove the blue fur out of his anus and rectum. In the privacy of our rooms, he still sometimes teases me about that.

I answer his grin with a growl of my own and I climb onto the bed, moving slowly towards him on all fours. His smile widens, and he slips slightly down the bed so that he's lying, legs still spread, fingers still moving.

Sometimes I wonder if he would be able to fist himself. Maybe one day I'll ask for a show.

I climb atop him, waiting for him to remove his digits before grinding my naked erection against him. He grins and arches, grasping his knees, and giving me a perfect view of himself, stretched and gaping for me.

Beautiful. Wild incarnate, and oh so passionate.

I slick myself up quickly and push into him, immediately setting a fast rhythm. I pound away and he grabs a hold of me, pulling me close to kiss and nip and bite. He wraps his arms around me, nuzzling close into my fur and scent, purring with some thrusts and snarling in pleasure with others. 

I growl when he quivers, as if to move away from me. His musk, heavy from his pleasure, tingles in my nose. I give into the urge I often have around him and I lean down to bite at his shoulder, my fangs sinking deep enough to draw blood.

I revel in the way he bucks against me when he cums. I adore the way he clings to me while I work to achieve my own orgasm. I burn at the way he looks at me, demanding more.

I doubt that we're in love. We don't have the time for that, not yet anyway. We're more likely just a case of hormones. Hormones of two healthy adult males with animal instincts, frustrated and under stress. Though, if we were allowed the time, I wouldn't mind falling for Logan. I think he would welcome it too.


	2. Sleep

Logan had trouble sleeping. Oh, not in his own bed, he rested there fine. No, the issue lay with sleeping anywhere else, especially if there were other people around. Don't get him wrong – he'd die for any of the X-men, he just had a problem with being vulnerable in a situation where he couldn't keep track of everyone. Be it pack leader instinct or the realization that Bobby _will_ try to draw a mustache on his face again, Logan simply would not sleep around people.

With that in mind, both warmth and smugness swelled in Hank's chest in moments such as this. 

The scientist was in bed, a book in his hands and glasses on his nose. Next to him, Logan lay on his side, fast asleep in the safety of his mate.

Hank glanced at his relaxed face and smiled. This particular expression was just for him.


End file.
